Authors: Roni Dunevich
“I don't have anyone,” Daniella said, light-years away.
“You have me,” he said softly, stroking her hair.
“Did you always know?” Her face tensed, ready to take the blow.
“Of course not.”
“When did you find out?”
“They were your mother's last words.”
“And you didn't sense anything before that?”
“There was nothing to sense. You're mine.”
The gap was widening.
“Tell me what happened.”
“When?”
“Before I was born. How I was born. Everything. I have to know.”
“Come home, dear.” Unconsciously, he bit down on his lip. “I'll tell you at home, when things have quieted down. I promise.”
She shook her head.
He closed his eyes. Wings fluttered on his cheek. He waved the insect away. A moment later, the irksome thumping against the lampshade started up again.
“I was younger than you are now. I was sent out on a prolonged operation. I was supposed to be off the grid for about a year. In the end, it turned out to be much longer. There were four of us. Mom was at home, alone. They didn't let us see each other
until a year into the op, when we met in a hotel in Zurich. I always believed that you were conceived there.”
“What really happened?”
“Reuven was looking after the families. He took advantage ofâ”
“Of what?”
“The bottom line is, they had an affair. That's it.”
She made an effort to hide her astonishment.
He nodded sadly.
“And you were with that British woman . . .”
“Jane.”
“Did you sleep with her, Dad? Did you cheat on Mom?”
“I was lonely, under pressure. We lived in constant fear.”
“So you fucked the British woman,” she stated.
Her innocence was gone. She was hardened, aggressive, and demanding. He knew her well enough to know that she wouldn't cut him any slack. “You know what? Yes. I fucked her, okay? Happy now?”
“Did Mom know?”
“No.”
“Are you positive?”
“No.”
“Why didn't you leave her for the British woman?”
Alex inhaled deeply. Her questions weighed on him. But there was something liberating about finally revealing the secrets in his history.
“When I got home, your mother was pregnant with you. About six months along.”
“And all the years you lived together, you were having an affair on the side with the British woman?”
“I didn't have any contact with her.”
She brushed the hair off her face. “Did you stay with Mom because of me?”
“I loved your mother.”
“And the British woman?”
“Jane. Call her by her name. You owe her that, at least.”
“I don't owe her shit.”
He'd never heard her talk like this. “She saved your life in London. She saved both our lives.”
Daniella sat in silence, turning the information over in her mind.
“Okay, Jane,” she conceded. “We'll call her Jane. Were you in love with Jane all those years?”
“Maybe.”
“And you didn't do anything about it?”
“You and your mother were more important.”
She pulled her head back and searched his eyes for the truth.
“So you don't have anyone, either,” she said softly.
“I have you.”
The sorrowful look remained on her face.
A breeze entered through the open door and wafted around the room, caressing their faces.
“Why didn't you answer the phone when I called?”
She shook her head and clenched her teeth. “I was angry.”
“Because it wasn't me who told you?”
She nodded timidly. “Scared, too.”
“Of what?”
Daniella smiled, and the tears welled up in her eyes again. “Scared that now that I know, you won't want me anymore.”
He kissed her brow and held her tighter.
“I miss Mom so much. I have no one to talk to.”
“You have me.”
“You're a man. It's not the same.”
She got ice cubes from the freezer, wrapped them in a dirty towel, and pressed them to her swollen eyes.
Alex looked around him. The walls were painted in Tuscan yellow stucco. Angled oak beams supported a terra-cotta ceiling. Under different circumstances, this place could be heaven.
She came back to the sofa and leaned her head against his shoulder, and they sat there in silence. Only the stubborn moth kept thumping.
“It didn't take you long to get here,” she said.
“I was in Berlin.”
“Do you have to get back?”
“Quiet!” he whispered, placing his hand over hers. He rose silently and moved to the open door. He stood still and listened to the night. Glancing back at Daniella, he saw that her face had gone white. He went out onto the covered veranda, which cast a long shadow on the railing and its sleeping flower boxes.
There was no one there. He came back inside. “We have to get out of here.”
“When?”
“Now. It isn't safe here.”
“I can't. I have to pay my bill, I have to say good-byeâ”
“Leave a note. Do you have enough money?” he asked, taking out his wallet.
“I have to pack.”
“Go take a shower. You'll feel better. Put on some clean clothes, and then I'll help you pack. Meanwhile, I'll find us a flight.”
“Can I come to Berlin with you?”
“It's too dangerous.”
“Is Jane there?” she asked.
“Why?”
“I want to meet her.”
“You'll meet her soon, but not now. You've been through enough. I'll make us something to eat. Go.”
“Do I smell?”
He threw her a smile.
Alex closed his
eyes, feeling drained and exhausted. The sound of running water came from down the hall.
On the kitchen counter he found a bag of dry Tuscan bread hidden among the dirty dishes. The small refrigerator yielded butter, aging mozzarella, and prosciutto whose edges had gone stiff. He washed a plate and a knife, made sandwiches, and wrapped them in aluminum foil.
Bone-weary, he sank heavily onto a rustic wooden chair. He would have liked nothing better than to shut his eyes and get some sleep. He gazed out at the veranda through the open door. The red bike was standing there.
The brake cable was missing.
The blade of the pickax landed with a clang in the dark, hitting stone and sending shards flying. The surface of the ground was cracked and crumbly. Nocturnal predators shrieked in the depths of the Grunewald forest, and a mysterious groan issued from among the dense trees.
The flashlight warmed Jane's hand. The strong, haloed light shone on the rectangular contour of a pit in the snow, just about big enough for a human body folded up in the fetal position.
Paris put down the ax and picked up a heavy shovel. His hands were encased in black work gloves. The night air was filled with the smell of moss and exposed roots. White vapor issued from his mouth. His breathing was labored. The shovel whistled while it dug into the ground. The heap of soil beside the pit grew higher.
Paris took off his dirty jacket and hung it on a branch. Jane turned the beam of light on him. His face was sweaty. His body, as solid as a tree trunk, was waist-deep in the pit. The silence was eerie.
“What do you do for a living?” she asked.
“All sorts of thingsâodd jobs,” he answered in the darkness. “I don't have a steady job.”
“So what do you do all day?”
Paris stopped digging and gave her an unreadable look. Turning back to the task at hand, he said, “Wait. I wait.”
A hundred flashlights wouldn't shed any more light on this man.
The wind wailed through the trees. It was cold in the forest. She was about to ask what he waited for when he got in ahead of her. “Are you married?”
“Single.”
“And the man, Alex. What's he to you?”
Good question.
“What about you?” she asked.
“On my own.”
Something buzzed too close to her ear. She shuddered and waved it away.
“Was Justus a friend?” she asked.
“You could say that.”
The shovel hit a stone.
“How so?”
Paris stopped shoveling, took a deep breath. “It's a long story.”
A bird of prey flew over their heads, breaking through the darkness.
“I'll go get him,” he said. “Bring the flashlight.”
Jane followed him. The beam of light dancing in front of them revealed their footprints in the snow and the tangled roots of the birch trees. Paris opened the trunk of his car, and they were assaulted by a sickening odor. He pulled the white plastic bag toward him, encircled the corpse's waist with his mighty arms, and threw it over his shoulder. Fluid collected in the bottom of the bag.
Jane's stomach heaved. Bile rose in her throat.
“Shine the light on the pit,” he instructed, dropping the body, which landed with a dull thud.
“Why didn't you drag him over here?” she asked.
“Have you ever tried to get the air out of a hundred pounds of rising dough? You have to grab it in the middle, hoist it in the air, and fold it over.”
He wiped the sweat from his brow, crouched down, and opened the zipper of the body bag. “Give me some light.”
Paris cradled the man's chin in his hand and scrutinized the pale face. The beam of light trembled.
“What are you looking at?” Jane asked.
A sudden blast of cold wind numbed her face.
The corpse's eyes were open.
“Look!” Jane shrieked.
“What happened?”
“He closed his eyes!”
“Don't beâ”
And then the corpse coughed, and pink fluid spilled from his mouth.
“He's alive!” Jane stammered, fighting off a wave of nausea. She couldn't allow herself to hurl, to leave incriminating DNA at the scene.
“That's impossible!” Paris sputtered. “There was no pulse.”
The white plastic banged against the snow dotted with footprints.
“Maybe he can talk,” Jane said.
Paris picked up the shovel. “Don't look!”
“Don't you dare!”
“Shut your eyes.”
“No!”
“I'm not waiting.”
“Maybe he can talk,” she repeated, but Paris had already raised the shovel in the air. He brought it down on the skull. The gruesome sound of bones being crushed. He continued to beat at the skull until the head hung on the neck at an unnatural angle.
“You're a psychopath!”
“He was already gone.”
I can't puke
, she thought, forcing herself to breathe through her nose. Why wasn't Alex here when she needed him the most?
Was Paris afraid of what the man might say? What was the Frenchman hiding?
He went on digging in the dark. Only his head extended past
the edge of the hole. She shone the light on the grave. A shudder ran down her spine. It seemed deeper and wider than necessary. Pulling out her gun, she held it parallel to the flashlight.
“Get out!”
“What's wrong?”
“Out!”
“Madame London, I have to finish the work.”
Pointing the Glock at his head, she warned, “Get out, or I shoot.”
“Okay, okay,” he chuckled warily, climbing out of the pit and standing beside it.
She moved back, beyond reach of his arm.
“Lie down on the ground!”
“What's going on, London?”
“Do it!”
He lay down on his back, his eyes fixed on her and on the silencer attached to the barrel of the gun.
She aimed the gun and the light at his head.
“Pull down your pants!”
“You're to blame for the fuckup in Turkey. It's your fault Galia is dead. Justus told me about you and the warehouse, and I kept my mouth shut. Then you landed me with the Nibelung shitâand what do I get in return? You go for Daniella like a rabid dog!” Alex fumed into the phone.
“What are you going on about? It's three in the morning,” Reuven said, his voice blurred by sleep.
A chef's knife was lying on the counter. Alex grabbed it by the handle.
“You should have talked to me. We could have done it right, shown some sensitivity.”
“Control told me you'd made a stop in Florence. I assumed you'd seen her and told her yourself. It's not my fault you couldn't find the timeâ”
“Reuven, the girl was raped! Her mother was killed. She was molested by the Iranians. She's hurting. She's trying to recover. Have you seen what she looks like? Do you have the slightest inkling of what she's going through?”
“Come off it, Alex. Don't play the perfect dad.”
Alex disconnected and thrust the knife tip into the cutting board.
Daniella was still in the shower, under the cleansing water.
He called HQ in Glilot. There was no plane available at the moment.
He leaned against the cool marble. A refreshing breeze blew in through the open door, circled the room, and soothed his neck. He shut his eyes.
The shower was still running.
“Is everything all right?” he called out. No answer. Maybe she couldn't hear him.
“Daniella?”
He reacted too slowly. Something metallic glimmered in the corner of his eye and was instantly wrapped tightly around his neck. He barely had time to stick his hands between his throat and the steel cable. The cable was pulled tighter from behind with enormous force. He tried to flip the attacker on his back, but the man was too strong and too determined. He managed to get close enough to the counter to knock over a glass, which shattered on the floor. Panting, the assailant strengthened his stranglehold. Alex struggled to free his right hand, but the cable tore into it, cutting a deep wound. Blood flowed from his hand. He got a glimpse of the man's reflection in the window. He tried to push him backward into the table. The floor lamp wobbled and fell over.
Alex tried to elbow his attacker in the face, but he couldn't move his hands, couldn't even shift position. He grunted, and with a huge effort he hurled himself and the stranger at the flat-screen TV. The man pulled him back savagely. Alex's hands were on fire, throbbing in pain. He kicked at the screen, which fell to the floor with a crash, smashing into pieces.
The shower was still running.
Black spots swam before his eyes, and his head was threatening to explode. Blood flowed down his arms and onto the floor. The steel cable went deeper, and then there was a harsh grunt.
It hadn't come from him. The hold around his neck loosened. Something had happened. His attacker was now pressing his whole weight against Alex's back, presumably attempting to drop him or break his neck. With the last of his strength, Alex pulled the cable away and slipped out of the noose. He fought to take in air through his injured windpipe. The assailant slumped to the floor.
The man was lying on his stomach. The chef's knife was stuck deep in his back, just behind the heart, only the black handle visible.
Daniella was standing there in panties and a red T-shirt. Her hair was wet. Her eyes burned with horror and fury.